


Joonam

by sageness



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Djinni & Genies, Don't Have to Know Canon, Endearments, First Time, Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi quotes, M/M, Medieval Islamic Fantasy, Muslim Character, Original Character(s), Persian endearments, Persian music, Poetry, Pre-Canon, Royalty, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam references, Safavid Influences, Yuletide, Yuletide 2020, Zarathushtrian Character, canon queer characters of color, فارسی | Persian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: "Relax," the emir said in a low voice. “Next time, we'll do something you hate somewhat less than poetry."
Relationships: Jamshid e-Pramukh/Muntadhir al Qahtani
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Joonam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greens/gifts).



> 1\. This fic is set roughly six years before The City of Brass, just under a year into Jamshid's life in Muntadhir's inner circle. It is not spoilery for the series' plot, but it does take into account characterization and setting notes from all three novels and the Extra Scenes (pdf now offline as the final draft is due to be published in 2021). You do not need to know canon to read this story.
> 
> 2\. Content note: mature themes warning. Contains mention of sex work and trading sex for influence. However, this is not a sex work story.
> 
> 3\. The poems quoted are cited in the end notes. They are all untitled, and different editions have numbered them inconsistently. If you want more info, feel free to hit me up in the comments.
> 
> 4\. I LOVE the Daevabad books. You should read them! /fandom plug
> 
> 5\. I am so grateful to my betas, SamJohnsson, Snickfic, and Petra, who were tremendously helpful on exceedingly short notice. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> And finally...  
> Dear Greens, I'm so glad we matched on this! I've had an amazing time researching and writing this. I hope you have a lovely Yuletide!

The Agnivanshi Quarter's entertainment district shone brightly in the warm summer night, with massive enchanted glass globes floating above the narrow streets, the flames within dancing in ten different colors. Music was everywhere, cascading from the windows and inner courtyards of every wine, coffee, and tea house that catered to the Quarter's renowned nightlife. It was a wonderful cacophony.

People ambled between taverns and shows. A busker strummed a lute on a corner, his turban and beard woven through with flowers. Scents of rose, orange blossom, and night-blooming jasmine pervaded the air, as well as certain expensive varieties of aromatic smoke. 

Jamshid and Emir Muntadhir strolled side by side, surrounded by a retinue of the emir’s favorites and a handful of Royal Guardsmen. In his youth, Jamshid had never been permitted outside the Daeva Quarter, and in truth, the rest of the city still held almost as much mystery for him as the human world. 

Jamshid picked out a few more of his fellow guardsmen, spread out, loitering as needed, which meant that Captain Iqbal was already at their destination. The captain was long expert in protecting Muntadhir on his exploits around Daevabad, and Jamshid was determined to learn everything he could as quickly as possible.

"They've launched you without a net," Iqbal had said on his first day of training, pulling away the bow Jamshid had loved since childhood and replacing it with a wooden beginner's sword. "We'll catch you up, but it will demand your every spare moment on the training ground."

Jamshid had promised to make the time, and before he knew it, Muntadhir proclaimed him his personal bodyguard despite both of them knowing he wasn't yet qualified. Even now, nearly a year in, Jamshid still hated it when Muntadhir ordered him along to evening assignations as his only guard. The only bright side was knowing he would have the following mornings free to train while the emir slept off the wine.

"Here we are," Muntadhir said, grinning up at Jamshid as they followed the captain to a bejeweled alcove. A mosaic of amethyst, malachite, and mother of pearl glowed with incandescent magic and was flanked by a pair of large green marble ponds teeming with lotus flowers. The house rose several stories, its stone façade glimmering gold in the light of the fire globes floating high above the street. 

Generous applause drifted down from its rooftop venue as Captain Iqbal stepped out to pass the all's-well and usher them into the central stair. Tiny fire globes lit the house's intricately carved plasterwork and vividly painted murals of Shirin and Khosrow, Layla and Majnun, and Radha and Krishna. They nearly lost Ahmed, the lone painter among Muntadhir's cortege of poets and noble scions, to his enchantment with the artwork before one of his friends dragged him bodily along. They passed three landings whose steeply arched passages echoed with the ardent moans and bright laughter of women and men, and then the stairwell opened out onto the terrace.

Captain Iqbal stepped aside, and a voluptuous Agnivanshi woman greeted Emir Muntadhir with a low obeisance. Her eyes were a lambent tin color and lined heavily with kohl. Her skin was a luminous dark brown, and her painted lips opened in a wide smile as she stood. "Peace be upon you, Emir, my lords. My name is Lalithapriya, and I am delighted to welcome you to Lotus House. We will do our best to assure you have a marvelous evening." 

Muntadhir said something gracious while Jamshid scanned the rooftop, practicing his training. It was similar to other establishments catering to the richest men of Daevabad: grouped seating areas of low couches and embroidered floor cushions, plush hand-knotted carpets, floating magical fire globes of every color and size, water pipes on every low table, and servants everywhere. 

To one side was a small stage for the musicians; before it, a singer's platform; and before that, a glittering expanse of carpet where dancers would perform. Trellised roses edged the roof, their planters interspersed with potted palms and orange trees. The crowd was moderately sized, cheerful, and entirely composed of nobles and their retainers. A very tall Agnivanshi man wearing a striped dhoti and sleeveless tunic was accepting coins and trinkets from guests at each seating area; apparently he was the singer, storyteller, or—Creator forbid—poet who had just finished.

Lalithapriya led them to a group of gold and teal silk couches along the latticework wall opposite the stage. A pair of guardsmen stationed themselves nearby, allowing Jamshid to entrust his scimitar to the insistent care of an ebony shafit girl in saffron-hued silk. Onstage, a half dozen male and female musicians began to play, filling the interlude before the next performance with a jaunty, whirling melody. Meanwhile, serving girls in generous salwar and transparent white wrap blouses appeared with trays of food, and a male saqi wearing an open silver vest and waist-wrap brought a tray of wine cups carved of pale green jade and delicate quartz. He smiled shyly at the emir, knelt, and took just enough extra time in filling each cup to make his silent offer clear.

Muntadhir pressed his left shoulder into Jamshid's arm, and Jamshid caught his first sight of the way the garnet and emerald-encrusted roses on the trellis behind them framed Muntadhir’s warm brown face and set off the dark metallic grey of his eyes. Tonight he was wearing a verdigris silk dishdasha with dark purple trim, a dark blue turban, and a glittering array of jewelry. The effect was captivating. "Relax," the emir said in a low voice. “Next time, we'll do something you hate somewhat less than poetry."

It took a moment for Jamshid to process the words and make the inward shift from novice bodyguard to hopelessly devoted friend. The teasing smirk on Muntadhir's full lips was enough to steal his breath. Jamshid couldn't help his blush, but he did finally manage what he hoped was a genteel laugh. "I haven't hated _every_ poem you've inflicted on me."

"Inflicted," Muntadhir answered, face radiant with pleased outrage. Jamshid grinned back before movement on the stage distracted him.

Lalithapriya was strikingly beautiful, not tall, and wore her thick black braids threaded through with pearls and pinned in a looping corona around her head. She was dressed in almost transparent yellow silk salwar and a matching tunic strategically embroidered with pearls. Translucent silk seemed to be a sartorial theme among the Lotus House staff, perhaps even a kind of uniform, and between the warmth of Muntadhir's body at his side and the tantalizing bodies of the serving boys, Jamshid failed to hear anything she said—at least until the sounds of lute and tombak filled the air and Lalithapriya began to sing.

I want to be with my love in a garden  
surrounded by pavilions with lovely cushions.  
In its center are fountains and water  
jetting up like milk.  
The nightingale glorifies the orchard  
and its seven-colored pears  
with songs.

A young man goes from room to room,  
gracefully.

The jasmine drops its branches.

Sitting by my friend,  
I will be healed.1

Her voice was high and mesmerizing as she wove the lyrics into an intricate, soaring melody, and the applause was well-earned. Jamshid could have listened to her all night and was disappointed when she ceded the stage to a pair of male poets in crisp dishdashas and colorful turbans. They must have had a following, as they offered dueling recitations of wine-soaked rubaʿiyat2 and increasingly florid ghazali to the exuberant acclaim of the crowd. Jamshid sank back against the cushions. He just could not grasp the appeal.

Muntadhir leaned into his side again, snickering good-naturedly. "Oh, Jamshid. If you could only see your expression." He snatched Jamshid’s wine cup from the low table before them and placed it in his hand. “Drink, by the Creator. You aren’t here to be miserable, my friend.”

Jamshid sipped obediently. On the couch at their right, Ahmed put down one of the mouthpieces of their table’s ornate water pipe and offered Jamshid a sympathetic smile. "I appreciate a good vintage as much as anyone, but I agree that sometimes the repetition can get a little overwrought."

"Wine poets," Jamshid said with a scowl. Then he turned to Muntadhir. For a moment, he only stared into the emir's face, startlingly exquisite among a people known for their improbable beauty. Then, speaking with deep sincerity and in deliberate time with whatever drivel the poet onstage was reciting, Jamshid said, "You are so beautiful, my dove, my pheasant, I will drown in my cups, or else roast and eat you with garlic and my next jug of wine."

Muntadhir let out a wonderfully undignified peal of laughter, much to the disquiet of the performers. There was a long and awkward pause that Jamshid probably ought to have felt some guilt over—but he didn't, not at all—and then the green-turbaned man onstage lifted his chin defiantly and declared with slow passion: 

I lay in the dust at Your feet,  
my heart entangled  
in the curls of Your hair.  
I've had enough.  
Bring closer Your lips  
and let Your kiss  
release my soul.3

Jamshid stopped breathing. Next to him, Muntadhir pressed their forearms together, not quite taking his hand, and for a moment, time froze. A year ago, Jamshid would have mocked this poem, too. But now—it would not be unfair to say that his heart was entangled in the curls of his emir's hair, which he longed to bury his hands in, especially now that he had seen it loose, seen every inch of Muntadhir in any number of compromising positions. But only at a distance, as his guard. Jamshid inhaled slowly. He had the sense to raise his eyes to the nearest fire globe and offer an apology to his Creator, who valued truth and creativity so highly and whose power was symbolized by flames. Then, boldly, Jamshid nudged two fingers along the inside of Muntadhir's wrist to his palm. "This is one I don't hate," he murmured.

Muntadhir closed his hand and squeezed. "I'll remember."

The night rolled onward. Jamshid was happy to discover the stuffed pastries were filled with vegetables and beans, rather than meat. He drank more water than wine. Muntadhir chatted and flirted excessively with some of the other patrons, especially the sons of influential noble families. He praised Lalithapriya effusively when she nestled herself on his other side, which Jamshid at first bristled at. Then he noted two things. First, she hid no weapons among her jewels or the scrim of silk and pearls that fluttered over her skin. Second, in making room for her to sit, Muntadhir shoved himself close against Jamshid's body, grasped his knee – perhaps for balance, except that he didn't let go – and stayed there. 

He stayed there as he chatted affably with Lalithapriya and placed a sapphire ring in her hand. He stayed there as a set of dancing girls performed, then a set of two girls and a boy, and finally three boys together, by which time Jamshid had finally recovered his ability to pay attention to anything beyond the feel of Muntadhir's body pressed hard against his own.

This group of dancers consisted of three adolescent boys dressed in gossamer golden silk salwar, oiled torsos bare, gold arm bands around their biceps, jeweled ribbons around their throats, bright carnelian and gold hoops in their ears, and garnet colored turbans with long, lapis-tipped fibula pins pushed through to hold them in place – and sure enough, in moments one was doing a handstand, flipping to his feet, and flipping back again. The other two launched him into the air, where he spun, glittering bursts of illusioned stars flying from his fingertips. His companions caught him under the thighs and threw him skyward again and again, where he danced in midair until it was the next boy's turn, and the next.

Jamshid was hard under his waist-wrap, and the feeling of Muntadhir's fingers digging into his knee conveyed something about the emir's own state. Unless there was a problem, Jamshid realized, remembering his responsibility as the emir's putative bodyguard. He scanned the terrace. The patrons were focused on the performers. Lalithapriya was smiling beatifically at the dancers. The serving girls and boys were slipping silently between groupings of couches and floor cushions, delivering wine, tobacco, and finger-bowls of rosewater where needed. All was well.

The performance lasted several more enthralling minutes. Then came the final aerial somersault and musical flourish, and the trio of male dancers prostrated themselves on the thick carpet before Muntadhir, who at last let go of Jamshid's knee. For an insane moment, Jamshid wanted to grab his hand and put it back, but then he realized the emir was sliding three jewel encrusted rings from his fingers and bestowing them on the boys. There were words of praise, and Ahmed led the royal attendants in extolling the dancers' talent and skill. Jamshid nodded and smiled and watched sweat trickle down their well-muscled brown bodies, making their salwar truly transparent.

Onstage, a young Tukharistani woman began to sing. Lalithapriya begged leave to escort her dancers to visit with the other patrons and left. Muntadhir turned toward Jamshid. "Are you okay?"

Jamshid licked his lips, swallowed hard. Licked his lips again. Muntadhir's steel-colored eyes were glimmering in the light of the fire globes. He was preposterously beautiful. 

Jamshid cursed his desert olive skin for showing every blush.

Muntadhir hummed, eyes sparkling. "They were pretty extraordinary."

"Yes," he answered after a moment. Then he shut his eyes, because the sight of Muntadhir staring _into_ him like that was more than he could take, and the sight of Muntadhir's mouth, so full and lush, within kissing distance, was even worse.

"So here's one option," Muntadhir whispered against his ear, and Jamshid shuddered. "We could take one of them to a room downstairs and share him. Or, why not take all three? I would love to see you—"

"No!" Jamshid burst out in knee-jerk horror. "Not that way."

"Are you sure?" Muntadhir's beard grazed the shell of his ear as he pressed, "If they can do that in the air, imagine what they could do in a bed. We both know you were spellbound, and so was I."

Jamshid looked down at his hands. Never had a proposition been at once so tantalizing and nauseating. The dancers' beauty was alluring and he could easily take his pleasure with any of them, but not with the emir there, too. Half a year waging a campaign of gentle, persistent flirtation against Muntadhir's fears, obligations, and excuses, and now the emir wanted them to watch each other fuck a dancing boy and call it 'sharing?' It was insupportable.

His arousal was gone, his head clear. Jamshid answered with a thorn in his voice, "No, my emir. Not by proxy."

Muntadhir sat back, sucking in a breath. "Oh, my friend. I didn't mean—fuck. I'm sorry." 

With a wry smile, Jamshid offered a restrained half-shrug. They were in public, after all. He couldn't say any of the many, many things he shouldn't. But he hoped the look in his eyes made it clear that Muntadhir could have Jamshid any way he wanted, but not with another body between them; and also that, with deepest respect, his emir already damned well knew that and could stop being an idiot any minute now. 

Abruptly, Muntadhir stood and hauled Jamshid to his feet and spoke to his companions. "This has been lovely. I'll definitely be coming back another night." He dismissed them to stay and enjoy the entertainments as they would and passed a purse to Ahmed with the usual instructions to settle the bill and tip the performers. Another several minutes passed in bidding Lalithapriya goodbye and assuring her that the emir's early departure was no insult to her establishment. A moment to retrieve Jamshid's scimitar. Another for Captain Iqbal to gather the Guard. Then they were on their way back to the palace, the emir with his arm hooked tightly through Jamshid's as he nattered away about poetry, of all things. He didn't stop until they were back in the royal apartments, stewards calling for servants to see to their needs.

"Leave us," Muntadhir said to the cadre of servants after they had provided fresh jugs of wine and water, laid out a feast for a summer's night, removed the emir's jewelry and clothes, tended to his hair and body, dressed him again for the night, and effectively demolished whatever remnant of charged intimacy might have survived the trek back from the Agnivanshi Quarter.

"That was excruciating," Jamshid said when the last attendant was _finally_ gone. He was lounging on one of the long cushions by the fireplace. He'd made a fair dent in the dolmas, pita, and baba ghanoush. Now he was licking crumbs of pistachio halva from his fingertips.

"They live for gossip," Muntadhir said, smiling. He'd left his private hammam and stood at the edge of the living area where Jamshid sat. "I'm home before dawn and reasonably coherent. Scandals must surely follow." 

"I noticed that we did not race back to the palace like disappointed Tukharistani warriors were chasing you," Jamshid said with a smirk. "That was terrifying, by the way." 

Muntadhir grinned, unabashed. "I haven't done that again, have I?"

"Yet." He took in Muntadhir's appearance: slim as ever in a fresh white dishdasha with ruby trim, sleeping sirwal, and the black, shoulder-length coils of his hair shining russet in the firelight. Jamshid said a silent prayer in Divasti, feeling the warmth of the enchanted flames in the fireplace upon his skin. Then he said, "My emir, may I ask why you're all the way over there?"

"Easily remedied." Muntadhir crossed the room and lowered himself to Jamshid's side. He glanced over the spread of food, but only poured a cup of wine, as Jamshid knew he would; he always did. 

"So, about an hour ago, you and I were having a moment," Jamshid began.

"The dancers—" Muntadhir broke off and took a long sip.

Jamshid shifted so that their thighs were touching."The dancers, yes, and your hand in mine, and your body pressed up against me." He leaned so that their shoulders kissed. "You were almost in my lap."

"I probably shouldn't have done that in public." Muntadhir took a breath and let it go. "I was about to say that I shouldn't have suggested inviting the dancers down to a private room," he said to the carpet. "I apologize."

"Forgiven," Jamshid replied, stroking a hand up Muntadhir's narrow back. "Assuming you understand that I'm not going to have sex with someone else simply to let you pretend I'm having it with you." He took Muntadhir's hand, venturing yet again to push for more. "There's no need for that, joonam."

Muntadhir sucked in a startled breath, probably at Jamshid's sheer audacity. "You've never called me that before." 

Jamshid wondered at Muntadhir's surprise. 'Joonam' meant, 'my soul,' in the sense of affectionately exaggerated—even poetic—endearments. It was a far cry from 'love of my life,' which Jamshid was beginning to suspect was also true. Still, he didn't retreat. "You know where I stand."

"I, um." Muntadhir blinked, looking completely thrown and more than a little vulnerable.

It was so unlike him that Jamshid couldn't repress an enormous grin. "Joonam, azizam, emir-joon," he teased. Then he brushed a kiss over his knuckles. Muntadhir didn't pull away, so Jamshid kissed his palm, and then his wrist.

"Would you—" Muntadhir broke off and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Jamshid relented. "What would you like?" he asked softly. In his experience, Daevabad royalty did not make requests; they gave commands. But Muntadhir was doing that less and less when they were alone together. Likewise, Jamshid more often spoke, and teased, as if Muntadhir were a boy he'd gone to school with at the Fire Temple and not the heir to the throne.

Muntadhir shook his head, his brow creased in frustration. "I—by the Most High, Jamshid, I don't want to hurt you, and yet—"

Jamshid brought his hand to Muntadhir's cheek. "Please tell me that we're past that speech by now. I can recite back all the things you like about me, as if that's proof I deserve more than you think you can give; that your duties to Daevabad come first, full stop; and that you think there's no way for us to have this, even though I can feel how much you want to let me touch you."

"Okay, got it. You know the speech." Muntadhir looked down, then met Jamshid's gaze, definitely nervous. "And you know it isn't just about us having sex."

Jamshid made a face. The emir really was ridiculous sometimes. "I didn't think you'd put yourself through all of this for a dalliance."

"Definitely not a dalliance," he said with a soft smile. "Call me by my name, my friend. Without 'emir' in front of it."

Jamshid had never spoken his emir's name aloud without the honorific; it was probably the only piece of royal protocol he'd never messed up. He cleared his throat. "Muntadhir." 

"Again."

Jamshid repeated it, smiling brightly. 

Muntadhir hesitated for a long moment, a flush darkening his cheeks. "By the Creator, this shouldn't be so difficult," he said with a self-conscious smile. "I want you to call me 'Dhiru.' "

Jamshid's heart swelled in his chest. "Dhiru," he whispered. For royalty, this was an intimacy fit only for close family and the most trusted of friends. He laced their fingers together and brought Muntadhir's hand back to his lips. 

"Again," and Jamshid obeyed. Muntadhir's other hand traced up Jamshid's shoulder to curl at the back of his neck. "I love the sound of your voice."

"Dhiru," he said again, leaning close, and then they were kissing, and kissing, at last. 

Time passed in a blur of kisses, slow and tender, harder and insistent. It was a conversation, an argument, a promise, a plea. 

Jamshid's turban and khanjar were discarded, and soon Muntadhir lay in Jamshid's arms in the nest of cushions by the fireplace. Neither of them had suggested relocating to the other room, to Muntadhir's enormous bed where the private diplomacy portion of his duty to the kingdom so often took place. Jamshid was entirely happy with where they were.

"Are you all right?" Jamshid asked when a break for a sip of wine stretched a little too long.

Muntadhir sank back against his chest and kissed him. "Very much so. Just thinking."

Jamshid adjusted his hips, reveling in the feel of Muntadhir's body against his. "About what?"

Muntadhir smirked. "Poetry."

Jamshid groaned. "Of course you are." Then, laughing, he smacked a sloppy, taunting kiss against Muntadhir's lips.

"Oh really." Muntadhir propped himself up, a look in his eyes as if he were meeting a challenge. He began to recite: 

I asked for a kiss.  
You gave me six.  
From whom did You learn  
such mastery?  
Full of kindness, generosity…  
You are not of this world.4

Probably, Jamshid realized, one ought never to mock one's beloved for reciting love poems while lying in one's arms. Penitent, Jamshid leaned up and gave Muntadhir six deliberate kisses, then six slow nibbles, then six gentle caresses, the last of which was through the tight curls of his hair. "Azizam," he said. _My dear._

Muntadhir shivered in his arms. After a long moment, he whispered, "No one touches me like this, you know. None of them. They don't even see me."

"Oh, Dhiru." Gently, he took Muntadhir's face in his hands and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Whatever I can do for you, just tell me."

After another long kiss, Muntadhir said, "I will. Thank you."

Jamshid nodded. Then he cleared his throat and said, "I want you to remember this, because I promise you I'm never doing it again." Then he recited: 

I saw you last night in the gathering  
but could not take you openly in my arms,  
so I put my lips next to your cheek,  
pretending to talk privately.5

Muntadhir began to chuckle, and then was laughing so hard that Jamshid dared to—gently—topple him onto his side, where he flopped over onto the carpet and cackled in glee. 

"It's a shame you're such an ass," Jamshid brazenly told the intricate blue and gold tilework of the ceiling. "I really don't know why I even try."

"You're exquisite." 

Jamshid turned his head, took in the sight of his emir sprawled, laughing, in a sea of the finest hand-embroidered silk cushions and carpets, reds and greens and golds. "You aren't wrong," he said, because he'd learned early to drag a mile out of every inch the emir would give him. "Careful of the food, Dhiru." 

Muntadhir moved a couple of platters, as well as the gilt brass pitcher of wine. Then he slid back to Jamshid's side and planted a still-snickering kiss on his mouth. "I think yours lacks the musicality of mine, though."

"They're both by the same confounded wine poet!"

"What does that matter? Wait—" Muntadhir raised a hand, cutting himself off. "Never mind, I'm being a fool. Do _absolutely_ put your lips next to my cheek and pretend to have something important to tell me." He grinned. "Consider it a standing order."

Jamshid hesitated, imagining himself being thrown into the dungeon by King Ghassan for causing a public scandal with his elder son. "When?"

Muntadhir shrugged, then resumed his place in Jamshid's arms. "Okay, maybe not in the middle of Court, but you'll know. You always seem to know when I need you."

Jamshid hummed but didn't answer. His mind was racing, his heart was full. _Asheghetam. I'm in love with you. Am I permitted to say that aloud, joonam? Or will you laugh and say something dismissive about what tomorrow might bring?_ Jamshid resolved to begin calling Muntadhir by pet names as often as possible. He might even be able to get away with "emir-joon" among certain members of the inner circle. 

Muntadhir stroked Jamshid's chest, fingertips tracing the palm leaf brocade of his silk tunic. A single tug would pull it open, lay his torso bare. "I can hear you thinking," Muntadhir said softly.

Jamshid wasn't sure if he should push for more. He still didn't want to suggest moving to the infamous bed in the other room, but he knew now that Muntadhir wouldn't, either. He brushed his lips against Muntadhir's forehead, then his mouth. "Would you do something for me, Dhiru?" 

"What?" Muntadhir asked cautiously.

Jamshid thumbed open the jeweled clasp of his waist sash and guided Muntadhir's hand under the fabric, urging him to spread open the tunic. It put his skin on display and also revealed the erection tenting the front of his silk waist-wrap. "Touch me."

Muntadhir took a breath and shifted. For a moment his own erection pressed hard into Jamshid's hip before Muntadhir moved back. "Sorry." 

Jamshid rolled his eyes, but spoke gently. "Don't be. I like knowing that your body agrees with me in this."

Sitting up, Muntadhir reached for his wine cup and drained it. Jamshid folded one arm behind his head, but otherwise didn't move; he only watched patiently, waiting to see if the emir would refill the cup and drain it again, and perhaps a third time, as Jamshid had watched him do when tasked with entertaining trade envoys nearing their third century. To his surprise, Muntadhir didn't. "Just thirsty. I don't want the excuse of being drunk when I touch you," he said softly when he caught Jamshid's unabashed stare. 

"I appreciate that," Jamshid answered dryly.

"Impossible man." Muntadhir hiked up his dishdasha and crawled back over him, humor reflected in his eyes. "Everything in that speech is still true, Jamshid. You know that I want you, and I still don't know how to make this work under the circumstances."

"We'll figure it out." Jamshid met him with a long kiss, rough at first but gentling into something that said _I love you_ with every press of his lips and tongue. "Dhiru."

"These muscles. I love your strength." Muntadhir stroked Jamshid's bare chest, fingers pressing into broad pectoral muscles developed through a decade and a half of archery and so very many hours at the Citadel. His head dipped as he laid a kiss over Jamshid's heart, and moved on to his nipples, the rippling muscle of his belly, his heart again, the ticklish line where chest muscle met rib. 

Jamshid couldn't help thrusting his hips upward, desperate for friction. "Dhiru, please," he gasped, stroking Muntadhir's shoulders. "No more foreplay. I need you."

Muntadhir sat back, letting his gaze roam from Jamshid's face to the wetness staining the silk between them. Then he undid the ties of Jamshid's waist-wrap, pushing the fabric aside and caressing Jamshid's hips. Jamshid let out a moan as cool air and hot fingertips brushed his skin. 

Muntadhir's steel-toned eyes were shining. "I want to touch every part of you." Jamshid's cock twitched and a small spurt of fluid landed on his stomach, but he was much too far gone to be embarrassed. Between his legs, Muntadhir knelt, still fully clothed.

"Do you want to undress?" Jamshid asked. 

"Yes. No." Muntadhir shook his head. "Not yet. I want to focus on you right now."

"Okay," Jamshid whispered. Then he reached for Muntadhir's hand and tugged it to his cock. Muntadhir's hand was smaller than his own and soft with his pampered, indoor life. Muntadhir flicked a fingernail against his thumb and a handful of oil manifested between his hand and Jamshid's cock. Jamshid moaned in surprised pleasure.

"Beautiful," Muntadhir said. He adjusted his grip and did something wonderful with his thumb.

"Kiss me," Jamshid gasped, and Muntadhir braced himself over him, kissing him fiercely as the rhythm built and built and Jamshid shook apart beneath him.

#

He must have fallen asleep, as he woke a little later with his legs draped over Muntadhir's lap, an ornate copper platter of fruit and nuts balanced on his shins. Jamshid noted that his cock and belly were now clean, though his tunic and waist-wrap both still lay splayed at his sides like crumpled butterfly wings. Muntadhir, still fully dressed, was dragging a fig through a dish of honey.

"Dhiru," Jamshid said.

Muntadhir smiled down at him and extended the fig to his lips. Jamshid bit, chewed, swallowed. The fruit was perfectly ripe and didn't need the honey, but he didn't mind it.

Muntadhir brought the remaining half to his own mouth and ate. He didn't say anything.

"Are you all right?" Jamshid asked. "Also, you're very much still dressed. Please say you didn't finish yourself without me."

Muntadhir slid the platter away and lay down close against Jamshid's side. Jamshid met his mouth in a honey-sweet kiss, and another, and so many more he lost count, but Muntadhir's desire seemed to have vanished.

"I didn't finish myself off, no," Muntadhir said at last. He swallowed visibly but didn't go on.

"Azizam." Jamshid rubbed a thumb over Muntadhir's cheekbone, just above the line of his beard. "Second thoughts?" 

"Fourth, fifth, sixth?" Muntadhir sighed and pressed a kiss into Jamshid's palm. "No regrets, but you know what this is for me. You aren't and never could be casual, Jami. You aren't a strategic political liaison. You aren't a drunken accident." He kissed Jamshid's lips again. "You're under my skin, and that's dangerous for us both."

"I know." Jamshid wrapped his arms around Muntadhir and held him close. "We'll find a way. I just want to be here for you."

"Never doubt that you're my dearest friend," Muntadhir said into Jamshid's neck. 

Jamshid tightened his embrace. "Joonam," he whispered, and Muntadhir squeezed back. "Will you let me touch you?"

"I admit I wasn't going to," Muntadhir murmured after a long moment. 

"But?" Jamshid asked, hardly daring to hope.

Muntadhir shifted and looked into Jamshid's eyes. "Will you come to my bed?"

Jamshid scowled. He hated the idea of it. "Why not stay here?" he asked, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.

"Because," Muntadhir said steadily, "the next time I have to 'negotiate' a contract with a two-hundred-year-old copper magnate with my finest vintages and all my seduction skills, I want to remember your head on my pillow and your skin against mine." He paused, brushed a thumb over Jamshid's lower lip. "I have to fulfill my obligations, but I want to remember what's real."

Jamshid swallowed hard. "Dhiru." 

Muntadhir's fingers lingered, tracing over Jamshid's face. "I shouldn't, I know, because it isn't simple and it probably won't ever be easy, but I'm much too fond of you to keep on like this. Will you say yes?"

Jamshid sat up, pulling Muntadhir with him. "Absolutely, joonam. Come on."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Traditional Moroccan song of the women of Fez, collected by Mohammed el Fasi and translated by Willis Barnstone. Back
> 
> 2\. From The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, as translated by Juan Cole:  
> 99.  
> Overwhelmed by desire, I pressed my lips to the tip  
> of that bottle and asked it the secret to a long life.  
> It gave its mouth to mine and whispered:  
> Have some wine, since once you're gone, you won't be back. Back
> 
> 3\. By Rumi, translated by Maryam Mafi. Back
> 
> 4\. By Rumi, translated by Maryam Mafi. Back
> 
> 5\. By Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks. Back
> 
> The terms in Persian:  
> Rubaʿiyat = (singular: rubaʿi) quatrains (a Persian poetic form with a strict formal meter and rhyme scheme)  
> Ghazali = ghazals (an originally Arabian poetic form of linked couplets similar to the sonnet, often expressing love and yearning)  
> Joonam = my soul  
> Azizam = my dear  
> Emir-joon = emir-dear (add 'joon' as a suffix to any name to make it affectionate)  
> Asheghetam = I'm in love with you


End file.
